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  “But you don’t want to get too folky,” Jess reminds Harper. “That’s so folky we’d have to wear medieval maiden dresses and fling daisies around.”

  “We’d look awesome in medieval maiden dresses,” I joke.

  “Uh, no.” Jess gives a thumbs-down.

  “Speaking of maidens,” I say, “any women in that bunch?”

  “Good point.” Harper flips through the pile. “Tegan and Sara…Feist…guy…guy…the Civil Wars—they’re a girl and guy. But their harmonies are incredible.”

  “They’re amazing,” Jess says. “Have you seen their videos? They’re practically joined at the lungs. I’d do one of their songs.” She joins Harper by the keyboard.

  “Me too.” Harper reads the song title—“I’ve Got This Friend”—and hums some notes.

  I don’t want to say it, but I have to. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  Harper and Jess look over at me, and my face goes hot. I’m always the one who knows the least about music. I feel antsy thinking and talking about songs—I just want to sing.

  I push up out of the chair. “Let’s try it.”

  “Yes!” Harper gives me a high five. “Jess and I can sing it through once to give you a feel for it.”

  Jess adds, “You’ve got a good ear. You’ll pick it up quickly.” She leans over Harper’s shoulder to peer at the music. “So, key of D.” She puts her capo onto the guitar neck. “You sing the melody?”

  “Yeah. Without keyboard. I think it’ll work better with just a guitar. You’ll love the opening riff.” Harper pushes the music closer to Jess.

  They look totally comfortable, two band members figuring out stuff together. I roll my shoulders, trying to relax myself into belonging.

  Jess starts picking. Harper’s voice comes in sweet but strong. She has an easy way of singing that only comes from tons of practice. Harper could probably sing before she could talk. I’m just starting out on a road she’s walked her whole life.

  When Jess joins in, her voice has a warmer tone than Harper’s but with an edge. Even when we were little, starting in choir, Jess sounded older than the other kids. Like she’d figured out more.

  Jess plays the guitar solo in the middle of the song and I snap myself back to attention. I can’t quite hear where I fit in the mix. I try coming in for the last verse at least, but stop when my harmonies wobble. Harper and Jess continue without me, their heads bobbing in time.

  When they finish, Jess says, “Pretty good.”

  Harper hoots. “Pretty good? Darrell has to love this. We’ll slay him with our chops.”

  Jess looks skeptical. “Our chops?”

  Harper gives her a friendly little push. “Come on. You know what I mean.”

  “That can be our band name,” I say. “Slayed With Chops.” I do some cheesy air guitar, hoping no one mentions my off-pitch harmony.

  Jess laughs. “Uh, you keep working on that, Nat.”

  “Songs first, band name later,” Harper says. “Let’s go again. We need to break down the parts.”

  We set to work. A real trio. Finally.

  Six

  Darrell’s eyes are closed. “It’ll help me listen better,” he told us before we started the song. It’s a little weird, as if Jess and Harper and I are singing our hearts out while he naps.

  But a little weird is okay. Because everything else feels better than it did a week ago. Even the sunshine and melting snow outside seem to reflect our moods.

  When we finish, Darrell’s eyes pop open. “Nice. Good work on the fingering, Jess. We’d have to fix the balance of your voices. The tempo was uneven too.” He must notice we’re drooping, because he spreads his arms wide and smiles. “But I can tell you’ve worked hard on it. I’d love to help you put together your Tall Grass entry.”

  “Yes!” Harper thrusts her fist up in the air. “Slayed!”

  “What?” Darrell asks.

  “Inside joke.” I laugh. “We’re pumped.”

  “Pumped is good. Working as a team is even better.”

  “Oh, we’re a team now.” Harper wraps her arm around my shoulder. Jess looks content as she tucks her guitar into its case.

  Darrell says he has a student waiting, so we sort out a time to come back for a full session.

  “In the meantime, keep practicing,” he says as we all head down the narrow hallway. “I assume you girls have picked out a second song too.”

  My eyes dart to Jess. Jess’s eyes dart to Harper, who says, “Um…”

  Agreeing on one song seemed to use up our week’s supply of agreeing. It’s part of the process I kept reminding myself every time an argument threatened to break out.

  “We’re narrowing down our choices,” I say.

  Luckily, Darrell is too distracted to ask for specifics. “Great. Go for up-tempo.”

  “Up-tempo. Yes,” Harper says.

  Outside, we do a happy dance. Or at least Harper and I do, but Jess doesn’t seem to mind this time.

  * * *

  After school the following Monday, I take a bus downtown to a music store a pianist at the after-party raved about: “It’s so totally not a chain store.” I want to find a second number for the contest, to prove to Harper and Jess that I can contribute more to the trio.

  I’m only a few blocks from DBML, but the neighborhood is a different, funkier world. I stroll past old factory buildings turned into vintage shops and hipster bars. I hear “Passing on your left!” and a guy in black jeans and tartan Doc Martens zips past me on a skateboard, a trumpet case strapped to his back. I round a corner and see the sign hanging from a brick building: Crescendo Music.

  Inside the heavy wooden door, a staple-stabbed bulletin board is cluttered with band posters and ads for used instruments. I spot a poster for the Tall Grass festival. I’m walking into my future.

  The tall-windowed space is crammed with books, CDs and DVDs. Mellow jazz flows from the sound system. Anchoring everything is a counter topped with a curled-up gray cat. Behind the cat, a middle-aged guy with a ponytail and the bushiest beard I’ve ever seen looks up from a magazine.

  “Help you find anything?” His voice is so deep I think I feel the floorboards vibrate.

  I shift my backpack. “I’m looking for music.”

  “Pretty sure we’ve got some of that.” Bushy-Beard chuckles, the sort of guy who cracks himself up.

  I smile politely. “I mean sheet music.”

  “Voice or instrument?”

  “Both. Voice and guitar. It’s for my trio.” My trio. Saying that sends a thrill of happiness through me.

  “Okeydokey.” He lumbers over to a shelf full of labeled drawers. I follow, aware of other customers silently browsing the store—all the non-newbies who don’t need help.

  “What’s your thing?” Bushy-Beard asks. “We’ve got rock, pop, blues, country, jazz, folk, Celtic, world, alternative. And that’s just the easy-to-label stuff.”

  “I guess, uh, not folk, exactly. But not too pop either. Something upbeat,” I add, remembering Darrell’s suggestion.

  “Upbeat, but no Peter, Paul and Mary, and no Katy Perry.” The guy opens a drawer. “Indie singer-songwriter?”

  “Sure.” I let my backpack drop to the floor and lean in to see if I recognize any of the musicians’ names.

  A voice behind me says, “You looking for songs for the Tall Grass contest?”

  Gabe.

  “Hey!” I squeak, like he’s sprung from a jack-in-the-box. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I am.”

  “So the trio’s still together? Your friend’s on board?”

  Right. He was there when Jess walked out of the after-party.

  “Jess. She is.”

  “Glad she came around.” Gabe’s banjo case hangs over his left shoulder. I wonder if he goes everywhere with it, the way Jess does with her guitar. “You three are natural together.”

  “Now if we could only agree on what songs to sing.”

  “I guess that’s the plus of being a solo act—
easy to get mine picked out. Darrell told me to get this.” He holds up a yellow, spiral-bound book called Splitting the Licks.

  “He’s helping you too?” I picture Gabe in Darrell’s studio with the trio. Me singing, Gabe watching, Gabe strumming, me watching…

  “Yeah. Thank goodness.”

  “I know, right? I mean, not that you need help. Just, I’m glad he’s helping us. The trio.”

  “Got it.” Gabe grins.

  “Excellent choice for five-string,” Bushy-Beard rumbles, leaning across me to tap on Gabe’s banjo book. I’d forgotten he was there. “You kids trying for the Young Performers gig?”

  “Yep.” Gabe pushes his shoulders back, all confident-looking. “Nat here is in a fantastic trio. Sweet three-part harmonies. They’ll get in for sure.”

  He remembered my name. I feel myself blush. “Nothing’s for sure,” I say.

  “Lots of stellar acts got their start with the Young Performers. Including yours truly.” Bushy-Beard pats his chest. “Yes indeedy…” His eyes get a faraway look.

  Before he can drift into a full-on memory trip, a little bell dings at the counter. The cat leaps down and scoots behind a shelf. A woman with spiky blond hair and a stack of books looks impatiently our way.

  “Yikes, I can’t keep her waiting if I value my life.” Bushy-Beard gives Gabe a hearty thump on the back. “You seem to know your stuff, buddy. Maybe you can help your friend here find some music. No Katy Perry though.” He winks and does an awkward trot back to the cash desk.

  Gabe readjusts his dislodged banjo case. “Wow. The Young Performers contest must be mighty old if that dude was in it.”

  A loud laugh escapes me before I clamp my hand over my mouth.

  Gabe looks sideways at me. He nods, mock-serious. “That was a little rude of me, wasn’t it?”

  I hold his look, return the nod. “It was.” After a pause I add, “I bet he had the same ponytail back then—”

  “And beard!”

  Bushy-Beard glances over, which makes us giggle. Somehow, Gabe sounds good even when he giggles.

  I have to focus. “I better get some songs.”

  “Right.” Gabe snaps his fingers. “There are tons of songbooks this way.” He heads toward another section of the store.

  I pick up my backpack and follow. Gabe’s long-legged stride makes his banjo case bump lightly against his back.

  “You don’t need to help me just because the guy said to.”

  Gabe looks over his shoulder. “I’m happy to.”

  I’m flat-out happy.

  Seven

  About an hour later, Mom, still in her work clothes, grills me for getting home late. Apparently it’s the end of the world that the lasagna wasn’t shoved into the oven right at 4:45. I spot Eric past her shoulder, gleefully tossing the salad. He just wants to hear Mom get mad at me.

  “Eric was home,” I point out. “Can’t he open an oven?”

  Mom’s eyebrows arch. “Natalie—”

  “I was doing math homework,” Eric says.

  “As if!”

  “Natalie.” Mom crosses her arms. “The point is, it was your responsibility and you shirked it to go shopping.”

  Like I was getting designer shoes. “I had to get music for the trio.”

  I don’t mention Gabe. He had just asked me to have coffee with him when Mom nag-called my cell, telling me to come home.

  Eric swans past, saying, “Ooh, the trio” in a snooty voice.

  Mom sighs. “Eric, go do your math homework.”

  He skulks out of the kitchen. Mom turns away to pour herself a glass of wine. Maybe she’s finished with me. I’m inching out of the room when she says, “When is this music thing anyway?”

  This music thing. She’s as bad as Eric. “I told you before. The Tall Grass festival’s in July. But the contest CD is due in less than two weeks. We need to practice the songs.” The new songbook practically burns a hole in my backpack. I want to get to my room to devour it.

  Mom drops into a chair and slides her cell phone onto the table. She rubs her eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this contest?”

  “What? Yes.” Would she ever ask Eric if he’s sure he wants to play hockey?

  “It seems to take up a lot of your time for…” She shakes her head.

  It hits me. “You don’t think we’ll get in.”

  She gives me a pained look. “I’m no expert on music contests, but I’d guess the odds are long. You’re new to this singing-in-a-trio stuff. Usually it’s the exceptional ones who—”

  “Why are other people always the exceptional ones? Maybe we’re exceptional.”

  “I’m sure you girls are good.” Not that she’s heard us. “And music can be a lovely hobby, but it can’t be everything.”

  I hear the garage door grinding open, Dad’s car pulling in after another thrilling day at Sport Zone.

  I want to yell, “Is this everything? Boring, exhausting jobs, and lasagna, and nagging your kids?”

  But Mom would blow up. I need her to let me keep practicing. I take a deep breath. “Okay, sorry. I won’t be late again. Anyway, you’re right, we probably won’t get into the festival and that’ll be that.”

  Saying this feels like pulling my heart out of my mouth.

  Before Mom can give me any more depressing parental wisdom, her phone vibrates on the table. She straightens up and answers, “Sandra Boychuk.”

  I stare at her talking about some insurance policy. The well-trained worker bee.

  She’s never felt the magic of being onstage. Of giving her voice, her self, over to a song. To something bigger than herself. All of the things I discovered at the music camp with Harper and Jess.

  Mom’s wrong. Music can be everything.

  My songbook is out of my backpack before I even close my bedroom door.

  * * *

  The next morning I meet Jess at our usual corner to walk to school. It’s a bright but still-cold day. I’m buzzy from too much coffee. I stayed up super late with the songbook. It was so worth it.

  “I might have found our second song.” I open the book and hand it over.

  “‘Blue Skywriting,’” Jess reads. “Do I know this?”

  “The band’s called Electric Daisy Chain.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t help.”

  “Just look it over.”

  Jess scans the song, her eyes brightening. I wish I could read music the way she and Harper can. They instantly hear what they read. I try, but then I have to plunk everything out on our ancient piano. Kind of tricky at one thirty in the morning.

  Jess taps the page. “This could be nice, Nat.”

  “Nice?” I fling up my hands. “Is that you being excited?”

  “Really nice?” Jess teases. She hands the book back as we wait to cross an intersection. “Has Harper heard it?”

  “No. I wanted to show you first. You don’t think she’ll go for it?”

  “No, I think she should.”

  “Yes! I was hoping you’d think so.” I found a song. I do know good music.

  “Yeah. The melody line is right in her range.” The light changes, and Jess sets off ahead of me.

  “Oh. That’s good.” I don’t mention that I was hoping to do the melody, that I thought it’d be perfect for me. Harper’s already doing the melody for the other song.

  Jess and I join the stream of kids trooping up the steps. She says, “Let’s go over it at lunch. We can steamroll Harper with it later, and she’ll have to agree.”

  As if Harper wouldn’t agree to getting the lead vocals again.

  * * *

  At Jess’s place after school, we sing “Blue Skywriting” for Harper over the computer, to save the long bus ride to her place. Harper says, “Nat, you are a total genius. Total. I can’t believe I’ve never heard that song before. I love it!” She puts her hand up to her monitor as if to fist-bump us.

  “So, you think it’ll work as a second song?” I ask, fist-bumping back.r />
  “Absolutely.” She nods rapidly. “As long as I do the melody.”

  Jess leans her head close to mine. “That’s the direction we were going in.”

  I stay quiet. Smile my “everything’s great” smile.

  Harper makes a happy-pouty face. “Aww, you guys are the best.”

  “We are,” Jess cheerfully answers. She knocks her foot against my leg, well out of camera range.

  I knock back. We’ve got our two songs. I just wish Jess and Harper thought this one was perfect for me.

  Eight

  Another Saturday at Darrell Bishop’s Music Land, this time in the downstairs studio. It is a cocoon of quiet—padded walls, no windows, rugs layered on the floor. We slide headphones over our ears, and I feel like we’re astronauts pulling on helmets. We’ve been rehearsing in Grandma Barb’s attic for over a week, since Harper went for my song choice. Now we’re ready for blastoff.

  Darrell’s voice lands right in my ears. “Can everybody hear me okay?”

  Jess and Harper nod.

  “Loud and clear,” I say. I’ve promised myself to be confident today, to try to be as capable as Harper and Jess. I want to show Darrell he was right to have faith in the trio. In me.

  He sits in the control booth, separated by a large soundproof window from the “live” room where Jess, Harper and I arrange ourselves around a single mic. We line our toes up with three strips of green tape marking our spots on the floor.

  “Shouldn’t we have our own mics?” Harper asks. She’s in the center, with Jess and me on either side, facing each other. “It feels crowded.”

  Jess’s eyes catch mine. Here she goes again.

  Darrell shakes his head. “We’ll be aiming for a real simple recording, Harper. No separate tracks for each voice or for Jess’s guitar. No reverb.” His tone is mellow but businesslike. “The judges want to hear you nice and unadorned.”

  Jess, tuning her guitar, says, “We might have only one mic at the festival, Harper.”

  “I know that. I was just checking.”

  “One thing, guys?” I wait until they’re both looking at me. “We haven’t actually gotten into the festival yet.”

  Their mouths drop open.

  “Listen to us!” Harper presses her palm against her forehead. “Talking as if it’s a done deal. I bet that’s super bad luck.”